


Sweet Boy

by DiscontentedWinter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Husbands, it's all about the implications in this one apparently, no graphic sex but heavily implied, no graphic violence, no graphic violence but heavily implied, where comfort is murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 12:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14852418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter
Summary: Peter gets his sweet boy a present.





	Sweet Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short piece written for the FandomCares auction. Please check out FandomCares on Tumblr! 
> 
> Thank you so much to @notvirginawoolf for bidding. She asked for manipulative Peter, and hurt Stiles. I hope this is what you were after!

The guy in the bar is not Peter’s type. Too square-headed. Too stocky. Too blond. He’s up for it though. Peter smells the arousal rolling off him as his gaze travels down Peter from head to toe, and then moves slowly back up again. Peter smirks, and gestures for the bartender. He buys the guy a drink, because that’s how the game is played.

“Tell me,” Peter says twenty minutes later in the parking lot, his voice a low growl in the guy’s ear as he nips at his lobe. Faint hints of sweat and cordite. “Have you ever had a threesome?”

The sudden spike in the guy’s arousal tastes like copper on his tongue.

“Because I’ve got a sweet boy in my hotel room who loves to get fucked,” Peter purrs, pressing his erection against the guy’s thigh. “Eighteen years old, eyes like amber, and the prettiest mouth you ever saw. He sucks dick like he was born to do it.”

“Yeah?” the guy rumbles.

“Tightest ass I ever fucked,” Peter murmurs. “But I left him open and dripping with cum before I came out tonight. Wrecked him on my cock until he couldn’t even scream my name anymore. Want to see?”

The guy almost stumbles in his eagerness to get to Peter’s car.

The hotel is one of Portland’s finest. Peter could never bring himself to stay in anything less than four stars. And this one is definitely five. The rooms are private, spacious, and filled with luxuries. The tubs are big enough to fuck in for hours. Peter has tested that theory multiple times over the week he’s been here.

He opens the door with the keycard.

The lighting in the room is soft. There is a balcony that looks out over the city. It’s a lovely view, but the blond’s gaze is drawn elsewhere: to the boy in Peter’s bed.

Stiles is sleeping how Peter left him, naked and splayed. The soft light gleams on his pale skin. He’s lying on his stomach, one arm curled up under the pillow, his face turned away from the door. In the low light it’s impossible to see the specks of dried cum decorating his skin, but Peter can smell it from the doorway. One of Stiles’s legs is stretched out, and one is pulled up, and that draws the blond guy like a magnet, doesn’t it? He steps forward to get a closer look at that tight hole that Peter wrecked before he left for the bar.

Peter moves with him, shoes sinking soundlessly into the plush carpet.

“Jesus,” the guy says, breath shuddering out of him. He adjusts himself in his jeans.

“Isn’t he delectable?” Peter says. “Such an angel when he’s sleeping, but such a shameless whore when he’s awake.”

Peter leans over the bed, and slides his hand down Stiles’s back, drawing him gently awake.

“Peter?” he mumbles, lean muscles shifting under his skin as he stretches.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Peter says, slipping two fingers into the cleft of his ass and enjoying the way it makes him squirm. “I brought you a present.”

Stiles stills for second, his scent suddenly sharpening, and then, as Peter straightens again, he sits up and turns to face the blond guy.

The left side of his face is creased with pillow marks, and bisected with a still-healing scar, angry red, that almost cost him the sight in his eye. There are bruises on his chest, flowering in yellow and fading brown now, and Peter can still hear his cracked ribs grate when he breathes. There’s a cast on the arm that had been hidden under the pillow; his left ulna is broken in two places.

“Still gorgeous, isn’t he?” Peter says to the blond.

The blond steps back as recognition hits him. “Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

“Oh,” says Peter, arching his brows and smirking. “Have you two already met?”

Stiles climbs off the bed, heedless of his nakedness. He tilts his head at he stares at the guy, and reminds Peter of nothing more than a curious bright-eyed bird who has just spied a worm.

“You know,” he says, his voice rough from sleep, “I think we have. Two weeks ago in Beacon Hills, wasn’t it? You and your hunter buddies didn’t like it when I refused to tell you where my pack was. You were kind of mean about it, actually.”

Peter’s smirk grows as the hunter backs toward the door. “Oh, that’s locked, I’m afraid.”

“Jesus,” the guy says again, panic blanching his face.

Peter leans in and presses a kiss to Stiles’s sleep-warm mouth. “Are your new knives sharpened, darling?”

“Always,” Stiles says, teeth bright when he grins.

“And did you cover the bathroom with plastic?”

“Oh my god.” Stiles rolls his eyes like he’s a recalcitrant teenager being nagged about his homework. The comparison isn’t too far from the truth, actually. “Yes, _Dad_.”

Peter smacks him on the ass. “We’ve talked about that, sweetheart. It’s _Daddy_.”

Stiles bites his lower lip briefly, his eyes dancing with excitement. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good boy.” Peter flexes his fingers, and lets his claws spring free. “Well then, let’s get to it. It’s going to be a long night, and while I do love the killing part, I’m much more eager to get to the post-murder fucking. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and licks his bottom lip. He fixes his gaze on the hunter. “Let’s kill this worthless bag of meat and then you can fuck me until I scream, Daddy.”

Peter smiles, advancing on the hunter. “That’s my sweet boy.”


End file.
